Tag! You're Hit!: A Novel by Howard Jenkins with Foreword by Las Vegas Police Detective Scott Black

By Howard Jenkins and Las Vegas Police Detective Scott Black

Tag! Youre Hit is a novel that reaches deep into the sinister underworld of graffiti and real investigative police work.
Hate Graffiti? So does this sniper! He hates taggers! Take a wild ride with Las Vegas Homicide Detectives Maria Garcia and Gil Radcliff as they are baffled by a recent wave of graffiti vandal murders and are drawn into a nail biting pursuit of serial killer Ben Morgan. Morgan, a military trained sniper, is a worthy adversary who cleverly covers his tracks, out thinks the police, and by using a myriad of intelligent techniques to throw off pursuit in several other cities is now in Las Vegas.
One cant help liking Homicide Detectives Garcia and Radcliff as they hunt the killer and develop more than just a professional relationship.
This book will please law enforcement and people who like authentic police/crime dramas. In this case the public can almost condone the killer's attitude toward graffiti vandals

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 20, 2011
• ISBN: 9781463403522

Howard Jenkins

Howard Jenkins was born in England and raised in the U.S. Retired from Senior Management in 2004, he now resides in Las Vegas. A graduate of the Citizens Police Academy and is friends with many police employees and detectives enjoys volunteering, reading and all that Las Vegas has to offer.

Book preview

TAG! YOU’RE HIT!

A Novel By

Howard Jenkins

With Foreword by Las Vegas Police Detective Scott Black

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AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2011 Howard Jenkins. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 5/16/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4634-0352-2 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-0353-9 (dj)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-0354-6 (sc)

Printed in the United States of America

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011906933

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Most criminals are stupid or they wouldn’t be caught.

Oscar Goodman, Las Vegas Mayor and former criminal defense attorney.

"Some criminals are smart and it may take a while to catch them. Some are lucky and smart and may never get caught."

Anonymous.

www.howardjenkins.com

e-mail: [e-mail]

Contents

Foreword

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Epilogue

Acknowledgement notes:

About the Author

Foreword

Since beginning my work as a graffiti investigations detective in Las Vegas, I have frequently observed one recurrent truth: There’s no other type of crime that garners such intense, passionate outrage from the public. In fact, significant portions of the community believe that activities such as illicit narcotics use, vice related offenses and even some street gang activities are not important issues for law enforcement to focus on. Graffiti, however, is only supported and defended by those who are involved in creating it along with the very small segment of liberal society who believes the individual’s right to self-gratification trumps society’s right to protect property and enforce the law.

The reason that nearly all citizens detest graffiti is not merely that it is the single most costly crime involving property. It is because graffiti represents an infringement on the rights of those who desire to live in communities which have the appearance of being safe, not to mention civilized. Graffiti is offensive. It repulses dignified society, and it personally threatens the individual citizen because it brings with it an invitation for lawlessness and societal decay. The public outcry graffiti causes results in our civic leaders demanding that their police departments and citizens fight it tooth and nail. This is because graffiti is symptomatic of greater evils. It is a warning of what we fear the most: victimization. This is why in movies, television programs, video games, and music videos the backdrop for a high crime area, a place-out-of-control, is always covered in graffiti. It is synonymous with urban decay, rampant crime, and anarchy.

Another interesting fact I’ve noted is the increasing number of cases of citizens taking the law into their own hands and exacting their own justice upon graffiti vandals by assaulting, beating, torturing, and even shooting them. I’ve also witnessed the tremendous hatred generated by graffiti vandals in otherwise law-abiding citizens. On more than one occasion while arresting a graffiti vandal I’ve advised them that they should feel relieved that it was I who caught them, and not angry citizens, who in revenge-mode rarely abide by the strict standards to which police officers are held. They have no rules and regulations, no supervisor eager to take a red felt pen to their use of force report, no citizen’s review board. They only have rage against that which threatens them, and the urge to punish.

I’ve also noted that it is often the productive, otherwise upstanding citizen, who seems to exhibit the greatest passion for punishing graffiti vandals. I’ve investigated many cases involving various levels of vigilantism: an elderly army veteran who set booby traps for graffiti vandals using techniques he’d learned fighting in Korea in 1950‘s; the case of the Tar & Feather Crew, a group of seemingly normal citizens who prowled areas frequented by graffiti vandals, covering them in their own spray paint and rolling them in the dirt to create a tarred and feathered effect; and numerous cases of beatings and assaults exacted upon graffiti vandals by citizens who were tired of graffiti and at the end of their rope. I’ve seen graffiti turn peaceful, everyday citizens into ruthless vigilantes with a mind for revenge. Graffiti is the most prevalent property crime there is. Statistically, it affects more citizens than any other criminal activity, and increasing numbers of them are fighting back.

I first met Howard Jenkins while I was instructing a training course about investigative methods involving graffiti. We talked about the way that particular criminal activity was proliferating in Las Vegas, and how it contributes to other types of crime, including crimes of violence. As Howard explained the basis and plot for his novel, Tag! You’re Hit!, I couldn’t help but sense that we would become friends. He understands this crime and how it generates strong and often violent emotions from otherwise law-abiding citizens. I share Howard’s affinity for novels written with attention paid to truth and accuracy, and was excited and honored when he invited me into the world of Tag! You’re Hit! I agreed with Howard that this story demanded realistic elements of criminal investigations in Las Vegas. It had to be presented with the real pressures of present day Las Vegas and its police department, one of the most famous police departments in the world.

In Tag! You’re Hit! the reader is drawn, without compromise in regard to individual viewpoints, political agendas or personal beliefs, into a gripping, reality-based fictional crime novel. Many of the circumstances of the story are based in fact. Howard has captured the true essence of an intense and pressing police investigation involving a proliferating criminal element of society, a savvy and capable killer, and a group of dedicated detectives determined to stop him. Tag! You’re Hit! reaches deep into the sinister underworld of graffiti, investigative police work, human emotion, and sheer violence.

Detective Scott Black

Detective Scott Black has been a police officer since 1994. He is an expert in the area of graffiti investigations and authored the state of Nevada’s graffiti law. He provides training and consultation to local, state, and federal law enforcement agencies nationwide.

Prologue

The covered bridge was in some disrepair in spite of the efforts of county officials, the local Chamber of Commerce and a few volunteers who cared about the history of this area of rural Iowa. The Chamber organized painting and repair parties every couple of years or so. The fading red paint and cracked fascia boards actually looked the part of an edifice that declared come take pictures of our old and picturesque bridge. The chamber hoped, through colorful brochures, that visitors would take pictures, spend the night in the only motel and eat at one of the two restaurants in the small town that featured either greasy breakfasts or large prime steaks, from genuine Iowa corn fed cattle.

The bridge spanned a creek bed that before all the surrounding agriculture took most of the available water, flowed abundantly around and over the hundreds of small to medium stones lining the creek bottom. Other than when heavy rains fell, continuous year-round water flow was another historical fact, remembered by only the most senior residents. Upstream from the bridge were thickets of low shrub with large oak trees spotted about and as if posing for the next wannabe photographer, enticed to the area by Chamber of Commerce printed material.

Ryan and Robby dressed in Levi’s, sneakers and tee shirts, angled along the compacted dirt and small stone road, trying to keep from the center of the seldom-used byway. Typical of twelve year-olds, they weren’t as cautions as they should be and Ryan shook the can of black spray paint, so that the ubiquitous marble in the can echoed off the hardpan. The old bridge came into sight as they rounded the gentle bend in the road.

Upstream, perhaps by thirty yards, thirteen-year-old Ben Morgan could sense the Quail moving through the underbrush ten feet below the tree. He had been perched in the crook of the old oak tree for nearly two hours. Waiting. Waiting. He was wearing his military camouflage and his high-powered pellet gun was still light in his hands. He was gifted with patience and stamina well beyond his years. Typical for a late summer’s day in the middle of Iowa, the smell of the cornfields and drying grass was heavy in the air, etching this moment deep within Ben’s memory. He loved hunting. He loved shooting. His father, a straight laced Iowa farmer, was a decorated US Army sharpshooter and had trained Ben well in the art of hunting and precise target shooting.

Two of the target birds emerged from the brush, pecking the ground and looking around nervously for predators, not seeing Ben line up the rifle’s site on the largest of the birds. Center mass. His dad told him during is tutorial years. It does the most damage and it’s harder to miss.

Come on. One more foot and turn to the right. Ben’s trigger finger expertly started its gentle squeeze. The unsuspecting but wary prey nodded and bobbed among the grass and dead twigs. Come on. Turn!

The rattle of the marble in the paint can was enough to send the flock to flight. Flapping wings, scuttling brush and twigs and squawks of fear from the bevy of birds scurrying to the safely of distance from the sound. What the h…? Ben relaxed his trigger finger and grimaced in disgust as the birds fluttered away.

Ryan and Robby bolded by the apparent absence of prying eyes emerged from one end of the covered bridge, climbed over the faded paint and cracked timber plank supporting one side of the old structure, and crept along the narrow ledge, about fifteen feet above the creek bed. Ryan continued to shake the can of flat black paint and urged by Bobby started to spray a large letter.

Thud! A small hole appeared just above the first small smattering of the fine black spray on the fascia board. Bobby froze. What the hell was that?

The boys, coiled to bolt, looked in the direction of the ‘pffft’ that had preceded the thud just above Ryan’s hand. With the rifle pointing directly at them, Bobby and Ryan saw the boy approaching them, stepping over rocks, tree limbs and brush, keeping the gun completely level. Continuing to point directly at them.

Shit. It’s that weirdo Ben Morgan, Ryan hissed. Come on let’s get outta here. The boys stepped over the board and started to move away.

Hold it! Morgan yelled, quickening his pace toward them.

The boys stopped. Bobby squinted at the approaching menace that they only knew slightly from school. Morgan’s reputation was all too well known around these parts and Bobby and Ryan didn’t want to have anything to do with him. Morgan, from a paramilitary father, had a standing within their clique that the young Morgan should be avoided at all costs. He was creepy and fought at the drop of a hat when provoked by someone’s immature or nonconforming behavior.

What the hell are you doing? Morgan’s gun, level and steady continued to point directly at them while moving toward them. You are defacing property. His voice rose. I can’t stand it when people do that.

Jeez Ben, Ryan said, his voice quivering. Lighten up. We were just having some harmless fun. No big deal. Ryan placed his hand over his chest as if trying to protect himself from an impending shot. The tee shirt he was wearing, decked by a large Iowa Hawkeye mascot, didn’t feel very formidable to him. You won’t shoot us because of this. He boldly stated, trying desperately to hide his fear.

Try me. You defacers. Ben Morgan was now on a level with the boys. I should make you paint the entire bridge.

No way the boys almost said in unison. Bobby, continued, We hardly put any paint on it.

Morgan lowered the rifle. I know you guys and I have half a mind to tell your parents or the sheriff what you were doing here. Maybe I’ll tell them both. Serve you right, trying to deface this old bridge. If I hadn’t been here you’d have finished whatever bad thing you were going to do.

Ryan and Bobby could now see why Ben was so different from the other boys.

Maybe I’ll tell the sheriff you shot at us, Ryan said, feeling a little bolder now that the gun was pointing at the ground. You can’t go around shooting at people!

Go ahead and tell ‘em. I’d love to show the evidence of your spray versus a small hole. I’d deny it. Morgan spat the words.

You are weird, Morgan. Ryan stepped farther away; convinced Morgan wouldn’t really shoot them now. Come on Bobby, Ryan said grabbing Bobby’s arm. Let’s get away from here.

Don’t be calling me weird. Morgan pointed the gun directly at Ryan. Put down the can and get outta here. He moved the gun, pointing down the road with it.

Okay. Okay. Ryan dropped the can and backed away. You are weird Morgan!

Go on. Get. Morgan continued to motion with the rifle. Don’t let me catch you here again and don’t call me weird you scumbags!

Ben watched the would be taggers walk down the dirt road until they broke into a jog and disappeared around the bend and behind a grove of Oak trees. He picked up the offending spray can with a gloved hand and placed it in one of several large pockets in his pant leg. So they thought I was weird, huh?

They just didn’t understand that cleanliness was next to godliness.

Chapter One

Ben Morgan squinted through the night vision scope of his Dakota T-76 Longbow rifle. It was his third night in a row of kneeling beside a low retaining wall near an open construction site, waiting for graffiti vandals with their hissing spray cans to come along. His all black garb, including a black knit watch cap and black shooting gloves, belied the summer heat of Las Vegas. Even at this late hour - nearly midnight actually - the daytime heat that had soared to nearly one-hundred ten degrees was still hovering around the mid-nineties. The automobile traffic was light and the occasional large truck and trailer passing beneath the bridge, Morgan was watching intensely, seemed to clear the overhead structure by only a few inches.

Morgan was used to staying in uncomfortable clothes and in uncomfortable places for hours at a time. Positioned as he was, across the freeway, he had a clear view of the highway bridge, and could clearly see the beautifully adorned southwest designs of birds, Native Americans in silhouette and jagged Aztec patterns spanning I-15, just north of downtown Las Vegas. The green directional sign, lit by fluorescent lights, indicated traffic to downtown Las Vegas, should be in the right lane. The sign, Morgan thought, detracted from the overall design and appearance of the bridge.

Tonight his patience and military training finally paid off, again. The powerful .330 Dakota Magnum’s telescopic site located two young men, one carrying a spray can, the other seemed to be holding a length of rope, creeping around the fencing on the bridge. The crosshairs found the spray can-holding target as he started to work his defacing deed. Tightening his finger, Morgan squeezed off a round and saw his target disappear from view. We don’t need your stinkin’ graffiti, he muttered to himself. Goodbye scum. And as the other offender scrambled behind a bridge column, he added, Don’t come back.

His mild adrenalin rush began to subside, but his gloved hands were steady as he retrieved the lone shell casing from the dirt several yards away before running back to his black Jeep Cherokee. In seconds, he had disassembled the rifle and deftly returned it to its custom made gun case. Driving with his headlights off a few hundred feet to a deserted street near the construction site, he stopped in the dark shadows of an oversized Palo Verde tree, removed the cotton booties from his shoes, as well as the hand made tire covers, and the false license plate from the rear of his Jeep and picked up a Coke can flattened on the roadside. Fucking litterers. Then packing everything neatly in the duffle bag on his back seat, he drove off, a good night’s work done.

#

Listen to this Gil, Las Vegas Police Department Homicide Detective Maria Garcia, said as she sipped on her highly sweetened morning coffee reading the night shift’s account of the shooting. The homicide office was sparsely occupied this time of the morning. The only other person within earshot of her comments was her partner, Gil Radcliff. In all my years with LVPD I don’t recall anything quite like this.

The victim was sixteen to twenty-five years old, she said. His chest, what was left of it, was splattered on the bridge above where his body was found. Apparently he died instantly. Initial measurements of the single entrance wound would indicate at least a 30-caliber bullet. Bullet fragments were found on the ledge where the youth must have been standing. Traces of spray paint were observed on the bridge structure and matched the can found a few feet from the body. The LVPD Crime lab was called to determine the direction of the shot.

Gil grunted acknowledgement, obviously engrossed in the Las Vegas Review Journal report of the same incident. I’d love to find the officer that gives out this shit. The paper assumed somehow it was a gang related killing

Maybe the reporter has it wrong, Maria said, matter-of-factly. "I think our Public Information folks do a good job. Besides, it probably was gang related."

Could be, but I doubt it, Gil replied, running his fingers through his short curly blond hair. Wasn’t it Mark Twain that said something like, ‘If you don’t read the newspaper you are uninformed, and if you do, you’re misinformed!’ But the paper still labels it as a gang related incident between rival taggers or rival gangs. I wish they wouldn’t use the politically correct term. They’re not taggers. They’re vandals. No. Worse than vandals. More like scum sucking defacers.

You make a good point, Maria said. Graffiti is the one crime almost everybody in the community hates. I’ve heard old ladies suggest that we cut the balls off a tagger when we catch them. Maybe we should just let gang members shoot each other, until there aren’t any left, she added in a jocular tone.

I don’t think it’s a gang member shooting rival gang members, Gil said, paying full attention now, It’s not what they typically do.

Vegas gangs stopped being typical long ago, Maria said, looking up from the report, brushing wisps of her black hair away from her face and looking at him with her dark tantalizing eyes. That’s not why we got this assignment, because of the paper. This is the fourth shooting in two months and you know as well as I that the boss believes it’s gang related and wants us to work more closely than ever with the gang unit. Regardless of your theory, which by the way you ought to keep to yourself, we’re still responsible for homicides and the gang unit has to take responsibility for graffiti crimes and gang activity even if you have another theory.

I suppose you’re right, Maria, Gil, said with a reluctant grimace. Walking over to the coffee machine, he poured himself a cup of coffee that was as thick as brown sweet crude pumped directly from an oil field.

Now that I think of it, he continued, it might be worse if the media thought it was some vigilante at this stage of our investigation. Then they’d really be on our backs. We know these gangs, or at least most of them, and shootings just don’t occur like this. The fifty odd shootings last year were mostly hot-blooded reaction killings. I think this is the work of an angry citizen.

Gil, you’ve only been in the homicide department for six months, Maria said, lowering her voice, but you know we track over four hundred gangs every year. You ought to know by now that they’re capable of anything. Trust me. These shootings are gang related.

Gil shrugged and rolled his eyes, I wish the gang unit investigated homicides rather than dump them on us, but when we get the ID of this victim and ballistics data, I’ll bet we find that rival gang members have been shot with the same sort of weapon.

Right, the same sort of weapon, but not the same weapon, Maria argued. "They probably have a lot of high powered weapons like that, including AK47’s. They could start a real war if we let ’em. The gang unit guys I know are always a big help to us; but they